


Last Chance To Learn

by asthenia



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Disability, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Whump, two cynical people learning to love each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9981506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asthenia/pseuds/asthenia
Summary: Emma Swan is adrift, a woman of tragic circumstance floating between shoplifting targets, utterly without direction. Her delinquency finally culminates in her being sentenced to six weeks community service, to be carried out at the local veterans hospital.Killian Jones is drowning, each pillar of his life having been systemically destroyed by a world cruel enough to cap it all of with the loss of his hand. Now he's an unwilling patient, biding his time and willing the world away until he can self-destruct in peace.Both are in desperate need of an anchor, though neither is quite willing to admit that they may find just that in each other.





	1. Chapter 1

“Three times, Miss Swan,” the judge’s voice boomed, but it wasn’t until her public defender nudged her in the side that Emma was able to pull herself from her deep reverence of the shiny desk surface in front of her.

The judge continued unfazed. “Three times in as many months you have been brought before my court. All with the same charge of petty thievery, and thus all with the same slap-on-the-wrist sentence of an equally petty fine. That ends today.”

Emma distracted herself from the judge’s heavy gaze by watching her lawyers knuckles grow whiter around his briefcase handle. She felt bad for the guy; he was trying his best, and he honestly cared about Emma and what happened to her. It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t give him much to work with. She simply wasn’t as invested in her future as he was. 

Currently, he was arguing about her plea and apparent repentance, trying to pull back from whatever awful precipice the judge seemed intent to shove her over. Emma almost wished he wouldn’t bother. She knew futility when she saw it. 

“I’m sorry, Counsellor, but your client has been a repeat offender to the point of public menace. I’m afraid this time, by law if not by conscious, I must make her punishment more severe. Miss Swan,” Emma, thankfully to go by the look on her lawyer’s face, looked up before having to be told to. “Miss Swan I hereby sentence you to 6 weeks of full time community service. Any failure to perform whatever task you are assigned will be met with immediate incarceration for an as of yet indeterminate length of time. Do you understand?” 

Emma cleared her throat to keep from laughing out loud. Community service was this judge’s definition of ‘severe punishment’? She’d been sure she was looking at hard jail time, measured in months to years instead of weeks. This almost felt like getting away clean. “Yes, your honour, I understand.”

“Good. In that case, you are free to go pending placement. Counsel should be hearing from the court community coordinator within the next day. You are dismissed.” 

*

‘Within a day’ turned out to coincidentally be later that afternoon, ruining Emma’s alcohol infused plans for her last night of true freedom. Instead she found herself sitting in her lawyers office, now co-occupied by the community coordinator the judge had mentioned earlier and a court-martialled psychologist, with whom Emma would be forced to have weekly sessions with to discuss the ‘impact’ the service was having on her. It was him, Dr. Archibald ‘please call me Archie’ Hopper who did the majority of the talking.

“There are studies,” Dr Hopper began, “That suggest the highest success rate in breaking the cycle of crime for re-offenders is to give them a palpable purpose. One where they can truly see and feel the difference their presence made, and make meaningful connections that will carry on even after their service has ended. That’s our hope for you in this program. A symbiotic relationship. And we believe placing you at the veteran’s hospital is the best way to achieve that.”

Emma didn’t even try to keep the incredulity off her face. “You want me to hang out and make friends with veterans?” she replied in a flat tone, eyes darting between her three assailants. 

“Well, not exactly,” chirped Miss French, the court coordinator with a kindly, if not slightly patronizing smile. “Most veterans deal with some form of PTSD, and having someone to talk to who isn’t a family member or caregiver, and thus on equal footing with them, is definitely helpful in their recovery. 

But the facility we’ve placed you in is a rehabilitation clinic- working specifically with veterans who’ve just recently lost limbs or become otherwise disabled. Your job will be two part: becoming part of the support system to help them transition back both into civilian life, and life with a disability. And helping perform the more mundane medical tasks that there isn’t always enough professional staff to give full attention to. Things like serving meals, changing simple dressings and such.”

Miss French leaned into her chair once she was finished, and Emma could feel the three sets of eyes bearing down on her as a vulture does a carcass. The juvenile part of her, the part that kept her coming before the court in the first place, wanted to argue for some sort of work that was less people oriented. Something she could keep her head down and muck through, and not have to think about ever again once it was over. But she knew this had been the judge’s intention, and Dr Hopper and Miss French’s tirades had been too well-versed to be open to suggestion.

“Well...I suppose it’s better than six weeks of picking up garbage alongside the highway,” Emma conceded finally. Dr Hopper clapped her on the shoulder with a “that’s the spirit!”, while Miss French nodded approvingly. Her lawyer simply looked grateful that she’d cooperated. 

*

Although she was loathe to do it, Emma made sure to set her alarm two hours earlier than she normally would have the day she was set to start her service at the clinic. She knew herself well enough to know the amount of mental preparation and coffee she would need if she wanted to get through her first day without winding up in jail.

There was something profoundly uncomfortable about being forced to be in a certain place and time for her. It wasn’t that it was technically a job, or even the fact that it was one she wouldn’t be getting paid for. It was the lack of escape. Running away when the going got tough was what Emma specialized in, and being unable to do so without dire consequences gave her the distinct sensation of walls closing in. 

The feeling failed to dissipate as the morning progressed, morphing instead into a nervous energy that found Emma white-knuckling her steering wheel outside the clinic almost an hour before she was scheduled to arrive. The weather was drizzly, and the faint tap of raindrops lulled her into a stupor of almost calm until a sharp knock on her window brought her violently back to reality. A round, kindly face with short black hair greeted her through the rain-distorted windshield, smiling and miming for her to roll the window down. Emma obeyed as if or autopilot. 

“Hi! Are you Emma? I’m Mary Margaret, one of the nurses here at the clinic. What’re you doing out here all by yourself? Are you okay?”

Emma took a few seconds to reel internally from such up jumped friendliness first thing in the morning, but replied nonetheless with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.   
“…Hi. Yeah, I’m Emma. I’m fine, I just…couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come early to...you know, get a jump on it”

Mary Margaret’s frozen smile and raised eyebrows informed Emma that the only thing the other woman did know was that she was lying, though she was kind enough not to call her out on it. 

“Oh, of course! That’s great. Why don’t you follow me inside then and I can introduce you to everyone before you get started?” 

Emma nodded, undoing her seat belt and grabbing her purse. It would probably be easier to have someone act as a buffer on her first day, and Mary Margaret seemed the type to be easy to hide behind. She chatted seamlessly as they walked up the stone steps and through the heavy glass doors, stopping only after they’d made a beeline for the cafeteria and got in line for coffee.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t even ask- do you drink coffee? They have tea too, and I personally prefer hot cocoa, but-”

“Coffee’s fine,” Emma added with what she hoped was an appeasing smile, keeping her question of whether or not they had Bailey’s to go with it voiceless. 

After grabbing their respective coffee and cocoa, Mary Margaret led Emma down a labyrinth of hallways to a staff room where much of the day staff had congregated before their shift. Following a whirlwind of meaningless introductions (including all seven oddly compact members of the janitorial staff), Emma was finally led to an adjacent office that housed a beautiful woman pouring over charts behind a desk with a stern expression. She looked up before Mary Margaret had barely creaked open the door half an inch, perfectly sculpted eyebrows arching in a mix of surprise and derision.

“You must be Emma Swan. You’re early,” said the woman, no lack of contempt in her tone. Mary Margaret thankfully edged response in before Emma had to fumble for one. 

“Emma just wanted to get a jump on things,” she said with a vibrant smile, which only seemed to cause the other woman’s disposition to sour further. 

“Yes, thank you Mary Margaret. Please do let me know when the paperwork for your name change to ‘Emma’ finally comes through.” 

Emma’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping in surprise before taking a more purposeful shape as she grappled for some thinly veiled defense of her new sort-of friend. But Mary Margaret simply bowed her head, her smile turning somber before mumbling off some words about leaving them to it. 

“Have a seat, Miss Swan,” said the woman- Regina Mills, if her name plate was to be believed. The footnote read ‘Head of Staff’, and Emma felt herself swallow at the realization that this woman would likely be her boss for the next six weeks. As Regina squared her body and folded her hands in front of her, Emma felt her metaphorical tail curl between her legs.

“Let’s get one thing clear. You’re here because you’re being forced to be. Despite what the program coordinators try and shove down both of our throats, for you this is a thankless job. Something to endure, and then go on living your life as if it never happened. 

"But I still have a hospital to run, Miss Swan, both during your stay here and afterwards. So you’ll show up when you’re expected to, leave when you’re expected to, and perform any and all duties in between as you’re expected to. I have very little tolerance for allowing convicts to interact with my patients, so step one toe out of line and I will have no problem calling your corrections officer. Understand?”

Thankfully, she did; Emma was certain asking a question would likely result in immediate incarceration. Regina inclined her head in acknowledgment to the desired effect of her tyranny, and released Emma back to Mary Margaret’s charge for her assignment.

“Ho. Ly. Shit,” she breathed as soon as she re-joined the gaggle in the middle of the staff room. Everyone bore expressions of knowing sympathy, and Ruby, one of the receptionists Mary Margaret had introduced her to earlier, even put her arm around Emma’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry too much about Regina. Her bark is worse than her bite, and despite what her name tag says, she actually has very little interaction with most of the staff. You probably won’t be seeing her very much.”

Mary Margaret stepped through the crowd and back into Emma’s line of sight, this time with a clipboard in tow. “Ruby’s right. As head nurse, I’ll be the one delegating out your everyday tasks. You shouldn’t have to deal with Regina unless there’s a problem. Which there won’t be,” she added questioningly. Emma replied to her hopeful gaze with a stiff nod. “Great! Now, how about we get started?”

*

The morning passed in a hectic whir of far too much information, and by early afternoon, Emma was exhausted. She’d shadowed behind Mary Margaret for only a few hours before her duties as head nurse tore her away, leaving Emma to her own devices with nothing more than a list of room numbers and tasks. The upside was that on her own, the most she could be expected to do was serve meals, adjust pillows, and possibly fetch dropped remote controls.

Under Mary Margaret’s tutelage, she had already helped insert catheters, held gauze that dressed sticky, oozing wounds, and seen more of the inside of the human body than anyone should ever have to. She’d half-carried patients to the bathroom, sometimes even having to help them to the toilet itself, and assisted in giving more than one sponge bath. It was a grueling first day. She contented herself knowing that she’d likely already seen and done the worst of what she would be exposed to during her service.

Her first solitary task was delivering lunch. She made her rounds with the food trolley, checking off room numbers as she went and relishing in the simplicity of it. Most of the patients were young men, friendly and flirty, and she obliged each in a few minutes of small talk before begging off by way of the food getting cold.

It took a little under an hour before she was making her last delivery. Emma knocked on the door, waited a few seconds, then opened it just enough to peer in when no one answered. The room was unusually quiet, absent of all the sounds she had already come up associate with the hospital and its patients. She pushed in, her hands full with the food tray she planned on leaving when she found the occupant inevitably sleeping, only to see the privacy curtain had been drawn closed around the bed. In the wards with communal rooms, this was a common, if not expected occurrence, but here it made her stomach sink with dread.

Setting the tray down on the adjacent table, Emma tried her best not to vocalize the litany of ‘please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead’ currently the thrumming through her head. With bated breath and exaggerated slowness, she raised her hand to draw back the curtain, thankfully to discover that the bed was simply empty. She would have chalked it up to Mary Margaret simply giving her an unoccupied room number by mistake, but the room was strewn with obvious signs of living. Books and a cell phone sat on the bed side table, and an overnight bag that looked to be stuffed with clothes and toiletries sat open on a chair. A trill of alarm ran up her spine and settled heavy in her stomach. 

She tried to run through all the reasons she could think of that a patient wouldn’t be in their room, and although several of them were perfectly legitimate, something didn’t sit right with her. Instincts leading, she abandoned her food trolley and set of searching for a wayward patient. The stairwell that led to the roof just down the hall seemed a logical place to start.

Emma found her runaway in the form of a tall, dark-haired man, leaning over the concrete wall surrounding the roof and drinking something. He was clad in a white t-shirt, scrub-like pyjama pants and a housecoat that looked to be made from a similar material. Even from a distance, she could make out the smooth slope of his nose, and the appealing, angular cut of his jaw, peppered with stubble. His attractiveness became more apparent every step closer she took.

Though she made no secret of her approach, he didn’t appear to notice her until the roof-access door finally swung closed behind her with a surprising bang. He turned, and taking in Emma and her ‘volunteer’ badge swinging around her neck, threw his arms in the air in in mock exasperation. Only then did Emma see what he had been drinking from was a flask.

“Oh, bloody hell! Can a man not have five minutes of peace around here?”

_Holy, accent_ was her brain’s unfortunate response to that. She let out a huff of pseudo amusement in an effort to save face. “Clearly not, or you wouldn’t be sneaking out of your bed. You the guy from 302?”

“And so what if I am?” He answered childishly, with a smirk that made her hackles rise. Maintaining her composure in the face of a smart ass had never been her strong suit.

“Well…I may only be a lowly volunteer, but I’m willing to bet patients aren’t permitted to drink alcohol. How did you get it anyway?”

The man leaned against the wall, crossing his legs at the ankle and taking a swig from the flask. He said casually, “You’d be surprised what a discreet twenty can buy.”

“Right. Well unfortunately, I’m not selling. Hand it over.”

He eyed her, his expression harrowing, before closing the feet between them in a few paces. “No. I think I’ve earned it. You see, I’m having what they call a spot of bad luck,” he began, words spilling one after the other with sarcasm as potent as venom. “A couple of years ago, my fiancé was senselessly murdered by a jealous man. I had nothing to live for, so I joined the Navy to be with my brother. And to try and do something right and proper with my life instead of allowing myself to sink into the abyss.

“That is until a couple of months ago, when our entire crew was captured by Somalian pirates, and my brother and I spent weeks in the belly of our ship, enduring every torture and indignity you can imagine. Including,” he added, rolling up the sleeve of his housecoat and gesturing to his heavily bandaged left arm, which appeared to have been separated from his hand several inches above the wrist, “cutting off my bloody hand. So if I want to have a God damn drink, I’m going to have a drink. Do you understand?”

He straightened himself to his full height and stood over her, though his murderous glare was too indicative of his desperation to be truly intimidating. Emma turned her lips up, more of a placating gesture than a true smile. She handed back him the flask, and though she offered no resistance, he took it roughly, drinking deep before collapsing back against the wall.

Emma slid down to sit beside him. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I just didn’t want you to have some kind of drug-alcohol related reaction and die on my watch, you know?” She glanced over at him, hoping to see at least the ghost of a smirk at her attempt at honest humor. He turned his head away and took another swig from the flask.  
“Look, I know you don’t care but... I do understand. A year ago my fiancé...well, not really my fiancé, there was no ring involved but we were talking about it…Anyway, we were expecting a baby together.”

His eyebrows rose, though he kept his head cranked obstinately to the left. 

“Neither of us led a life suitable for raising a child, but we were happy. Really happy. And then, when I was around three months along, the reality of it started sinking in. The fact that you couldn’t raise a baby in the back of a car. That you couldn’t provide for its every need by stealing. That at any point, one of us could get caught, and leave our child down a parent. 

“My solution was to start looking for actual work, but Neal, he panicked. He tried to rob a jewelry store for a case of expensive watches. Just to give us something to live off of until we could both find legitimate jobs, he said. He got caught, and because he was so afraid of not being able to provide for me and our baby, he didn’t stand down. The cops shot him, and he died. And I lost the baby.”

By the time Emma finished telling her story, her voice had become little more than a croak. It was still such a fresh wound, so raw, that she had barely permitted herself to think on it, let alone tell a complete stranger. Her walls were strong and high and tended with care; even Neal had had a hard time scaling them. But something about the stranger’s own candor stirred something in Emma, prompted her to throw down a ladder at a speed she had never thought possible. It was a profoundly uncomfortable revelation. 

“What’s your name?” The man prompted after long moments of uneasy silence. Emma looked up to find him studying her intently.

“Emma Swan,” she replied, tiredly. “What’s yours?”

“Killian Jones.” He offered her his hand, which she took awkwardly, Killian tucking the flask under his arm before gripping her hand with surprising strength. His fingers lingered against hers just a moment too long as they pulled away.

“Well, Swan,” he said, offering her the flask as he spoke. She took it without hesitation. “Here’s to us forgetting all that shite in the bottom of a bottle, hey?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and if he didn’t wear his cynicism so plainly on his sleeve, Emma may have thought he was flirting with her. 

They remained on the roof for some time after, leaning over the concrete wall to appreciate the view while passing the flask (which had turned out to be rum) back and forth wordlessly. A thought occurred to Emma, and she found herself voicing it before she could think better.

“Your brother, is he here? Or did he manage to make it out…unscathed?” Though took great care to keep her tone and expression neutral, she still felt the man beside her go rigid. 

Killian scowled at her, conflict warring on his face before returning his attention to the flask. The afternoon sun highlighted the gauntness of his features, and the desolation in his piercing blue eyes. She was about to tell him it was none of her business, when he began to speak.

“No. He…when they…,” he held his maimed arm up again, but offered no more. “He attacked them, and…” He trailed off, his right hand coming to scratch behind his ear. “Anyway, he’s not here.” He cleared his throat, his jaw clenching and unclenching in a rhythmic manner.

Emma got the hint easily enough. “Oh, okay then. In that case, how about we head back to your room before anyone notices either of us is missing, huh? Lunch is waiting for you anyway.” Killian eyed her for a brief moment then nodded, pushing off the wall and brushing past her as fast as his fatigued body would allow. 

Emma watched him go, waiting a full half-minute after he’d disappeared down the stairwell before following to return to her food trolley. The strange twisting in her stomach had not gone away.

* 

The rest of the day passed as uneventfully as the morning had. She re-joined Mary Margaret after polishing off the rest of her list, and they lunched together alongside Ruby, an easy camaraderie forming between the three women.

She decided she wouldn’t mention her roof expedition with Killian, nor would she make any effort to pester him again; she figured if his drinking were going to have any adverse health effects, they’d have happened already, and she didn’t want to cause any unnecessary drama for the man.

As she drove home, Emma reflected on her first day at the hospital and found her heart was significantly lighter than it had been that morning. She refused to give in and admit that it had anything to do with that bonding and reformation crap the psychologist had tried to push on her, but she did allow that, just maybe, it had a little something to do with Killian Jones.


	2. Chapter 2

By the end of the week, Emma’s resolve to steer clear of room 302 and its occupant began to waver. She would find her thoughts traitorously wandering to him, no matter how many times she reprimanded herself. The only explanation she would allow was that he was good looking and mysterious, two perfect ingredients to peak her interest. Emma was inquisitive in nature, and the exposé Killian had so suddenly offered her had done nothing if not stoke the flame of her curiosity. The nagging weight of vulnerability at what she had revealed to him in exchange also sat heavy in the pit of her stomach, keeping him and his cocky smirk constantly hovering at the periphery of her thoughts.

Come Friday morning, it was all she could do not to visibly squirm and she made her way through her morning rounds with Mary Margaret. She spent the first leg contemplating how to casually bring Killian up to see if she could get any more information on him, and by the second her discontent and indecisiveness was obvious enough to prompt the other woman to question her on it.

“Alright, spit it out; what’s got you all squirrely?” Mary Margaret asked as they pushed food trolleys down a near-deserted corridor.

Emma wrinkled her nose in mock contempt, though she was secretly grateful not to have to broach the subject herself. “Squirrely? I take offense to that. I’m hamster-y at best.”

Mary Margaret stopped walking, tilting her head in an infuriatingly maternal manner. “Emma.”

“Okay…this is probably a stupid question, considering how many people you treat in a day, but…do you know anything about the guy in room 302?”

“Oh, you mean Killian?” Mary Margaret replied instantly with a smug smile. Emma sputtered. “It’s really not that impressive,” she continued. “He’s made quite the impression on the ladies. Gorgeous Navy vet with a British accent and foul temper? Everyone knows something about him.”

Emma conceded the point. “Okay then, what do you know?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Emma knew the teasing tone in Mary Margaret’s voice wasn’t intended to be mean spirited, but she was angry enough at herself for taking an interest in some asshole she met on a hospital roof that she didn’t need the ribbing from anyone else. Her impatience began to bubble over.

“Because I caught him drinking a flask on the roof the other day and he told me off when I tried to relieve him of it.”

Mary Margaret seemed entirely nonplussed. She picked up another tray from her cart and began walking again. “At least he tried to hide it this time.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Emma ran ahead, abandoning her tray to get in front of Mary Margaret. “He’s done this before? And you knew?”

Mary Margaret searched Emma’s eyes for a few moments, weighing her intentions. “Killian, he’s...one of our more difficult patients. A lot of the people in here, they’re dealing with PTSD and coming to terms with disability, but Killian has the loss of his brother and the guilt over his death to contend with on top of that. The fact that he refuses help of any kind doesn’t help matters. I’ve been trying to talk to him since he got here, but all he does is snark and flirt with me. It would be kind be kind of charming if it wasn’t such an obvious defense mechanism.”

Emma’s thoughts had floated away about halfway through. “So his brother did die…and he thinks it was his fault…” She let her voice trail off, lost in the grief of someone she barely knew, but already felt incomprehensibly close to.

“How did you-?”

“He told me. Well, sort of told me. He went on a bit of a tirade about why he deserved a drink when I tried to take the flask away.” Emma almost smiled at the memory.

“Well, that’s more than he’s ever said to any of us, or the counselors we keep trying to get him to talk to. You should feel very special, Emma.”

*

Mary Margaret’s words plagued Emma the rest of the morning, advancing the niggling thought that there had been something inexplicably more to her short interaction with Killian Jones from uncomfortable to unbearable. She decided she needed to talk with him at least one more time for the sake of her peace of mind, though how and what about stubbornly eluded her. 

Lunch approached quickly, and Emma made her way toward the cafeteria, passing an orderly pushing the all too familiar food trolley on her way. She wrinkled her nose at the rows of trays and bowls, most containing the same bland broth with mushed vegetables generously called ‘soup’ that she had served earlier herself.

She grabbed a tray and got in line, immediately swiping the last bowl of blue Jell-O before surveying what was on the menu for today. None of it looked particularly appealing, though it all looked better than the crap they gave to their patients. A chicken breast and mashed potatoes accompanied her Jello-O, and she poked at the wiggly substance contemplatively every once in a while as she chewed. She was just about to set in on it, having stomached all she could of the processed chicken, when the idea struck her. Everyone likes Jell-O, and bribery with actually edible food may just be the in she needed to see Killian again. She dumped her tray and the rest of her food before hurrying down the hall, holding the Jell-O protectively with both hands.

Slowing her gait considerably as she approached the room, Emma peered inside from as far away as she could, not wanting to disturb him if he was sleeping or otherwise occupied. She was in luck- he was propped partially up, a book braced between his bent knee and good hand. The lunch the orderly must have delivered moments ago sat untouched on the bed side table.

He looked sicker than he had that day on the roof; his eyes were drooped and accompanied by considerable bags, and his cheeks had an unhealthy hollowness to them. His stubble had grown closer to becoming a beard, and cast a dark shadow over the pallor of the rest of his face. When he brought his fingers up to turn the page, Emma thought she saw them tremble slightly.

Chewing her lip in trepidation, she debated the benefit of making him eat some entirely unhealthy Jell-O versus how completely not up for visitors he seemed. Before she could reach a verdict, he made her decision for her.

“If you’re going to stand outside my door and stare, you might as well come in.” She rounded the corner, her body taut in mock irritation, though it took most of her effort not to smile.

“How did you know I was there?” she monotoned, coming in just enough to lean against the door frame. His lips moved in an echo of the cocky smirk he’s given her on the roof, though there was much less exuberance behind the gesture. He jutted his chin toward the window directly beside the door, in front of which she’d been standing the entire time. Emma closed her eyes in defeat as she finally stepped into the room.

Killian sat his book down and leaned into the pillows supporting his back. “Whatever it is you did to land yourself with community service love, I daresay it wasn’t spying” 

“Har har. Good thing I came though, apparently I’m saving you from starvation,” she looked pointedly at the abandoned broth while lifting the Jell-O in the air. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“You, lass, have an unhealthy obsession with ingestion habits.” 

“Like I said, can’t have you dying on my watch.” Emma closed the final distance between the door and the bed as she spoke, setting the Jell-O on the movable table and bringing it close enough for him to easily reach. She shifted her weight to her right hip, allowing herself to lean ever so slightly against the edge of his bed.

Killian huffed, adjusting himself upright enough to spoon some of the Jell-O into his mouth. “Right. Well, you delivered the stuff, I’m sure you’re aware of how vile it is. But if you must know, I simply haven’t been feeling very hungry as of late.”

“But you felt well enough to sneak up to the roof for a nightcap?” Emma regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth; Killian’s jaw began clenching again, a tic she recognized he employed when she began mentioning things he would rather not talk about.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for,” she quickly stammered out, peering below her eyelashes to see if his thunderous expression had alleviated at all. It hadn’t, and now he had abandoned the Jello-O in favour of scrutinizing her with his unsettling crystal blue glare.

“Why are you here, Miss Swan?”

And wasn’t that the million dollar question? “I don’t know, I guess I’m just…concerned.”

“You don’t know me. People usually aren’t concerned with the affairs of strangers.”

“I know what you told me. And I know what it’s like to try and go through something awful alone.” The words were tumbling free again, one after another, just as they had that day on the rooftop. It was all she could do not to physically clap her hand over her mouth.

In spite of her restraint, Killian’s expression went from dubious to outright suspicious. “I don’t need a pity friend, Swan. I get enough of that from this lot already.”

Emma felt her stomach drop out completely. “That’s not…how could you even think that?”

“Well it’s the only thing that makes any bloody sense, isn’t it? Everyone else here has already tried and failed, so they sent the new girl in to have a go.”

Emma felt the familiar prick behind her eyes as the angry tears began to form. She stepped away from the bed and crossed her arms around her chest, willing her stubbornness to keep her from being reduced to a blubbering mess in front of him. She swallowed once, and steadied her voice. She may be an angry crier, but she was going to have the last word.

“You know what, fine. You wanna wallow all on your own, in the past and in misery and self-pity and regret, fine. I’ll leave you to it. I just hope I’m still here to see the look on your face when you realize you dug your own grave by running away from anyone you ever tried to help you.”

Turning on her heel before he could even register her words, her head began an ominous swirl as her field of vision quickly clouded over. She unceremoniously shoved past several people as she stormed out, her only thoughts on getting as far away as possible before the dam burst. She made it as far as the front doors before the first traitorous tears leaked down her face, but absolutely refused to give in to the sobs bubbling up from her chest until she was safely ensconced in her car.

It wasn’t often that Emma allowed herself to full on cry, and when her mind began to clear she tried to rationalize that she was simply due. She spent several minutes meditating on that with her hands white knuckling the steering wheel, trying to convince her body to stop long enough for her to compose herself and get back to work. But the longer she sat, the fiercer the vice-like knot in her stomach grew, and the more the embarrassing truth about her outburst became impossible to ignore.

She had opened herself up to someone, suddenly and with no provocation, and he had rejected her. Her worst fear come true, and beyond that, she had no one to blame but herself for being so candid so quickly. Emma looked toward the hospital, and in that moment, decided any fate would be better than going to back to face that.  
Shoving her keys in the ignition, she floored the gas pedal and drove away.

*

The weekend passed quietly, without so much as a call or a text from either the hospital or the corrections office. Emma couldn’t bring herself to be grateful for that; she knew the hammer had to fall at some point, and she would rather it fell sooner rather than later.

The longer she had to think on it, the more she regretted abandoning she shift at the hospital. Her likely punishment wasn’t worth the temporary relief of being able to run away, but she had to admit that if she could do it over again, she wasn’t sure what she would do differently.

Not go to Killian’s room at all, probably.

On Monday morning, she took an extra-long shower, made herself bacon and eggs to go along with her coffee, and made sure her apartment was in order to be without her for a few months. If she was going to jail, at least it would be sort of on her own terms.

She tried to hold her head high as she walked into the hospital, but her attempt at dignity was cut short when Regina intersected her almost immediately. She wore a cat that ate the canary grin and her voice positively oozed false sincerity.

“Hello, Miss Swan. Lovely for you to join us today. Fancy a chat in my office?” As if there was any choice.

Emma followed her wordlessly, and was barely able to keep the surprise off her face at the lack of police presence when they arrived. She sat in the chair opposite of Regina and made her back as straight as she could, trying her best to keep her expression neutral.

“Despite your best efforts at nonchalance, Miss Swan, I’m sure you’re very surprised that you haven’t been handcuffed yet. Let me explain why that is: I do not make idle threats. I called your corrections officer as soon as it came to my attention that you had left, and the only reason you’re not in jail right now is because she happens to be an infuriatingly idealistic woman. She believes as this is your first infraction, it should merely serve as a warning. The…punishment,” if air quotes could take physical form, Emma was sure they would be floating above Regina’s head, “she suggested was to move your appointment with Dr. Hopper up to today.”

 _Thank you Miss French_ , was all Emma’s brain could process for a few moments. Regina didn’t allow her relief to last long before she began trying to bulldoze over it again.

“Obviously, I found that unacceptable. As such, the compromise we reached is as follows: You will report to Dr. Hopper today, and depending on how your meeting goes, he will determine if you are better suited to continue your work here, or in prison. Should he rule in your favor, however, know that you will get no such chances in the future. Next time you pull something like this, Miss French won’t be able to save you.”

Regina sat back in her chair, folding her hands in front of her as she plastered on that same sickly-sweet fake smile. “Good day, Miss Swan.”

*

Emma had a hard time discerning whether the drive to Archie’s office was in fact excruciating long, or if she was involuntarily taking it with exaggerated slowness. She spent the time carefully constructing her responses to every possible question she could imagine him asking, determined to adequately deflect his query while giving him just enough of what he wanted to hear.

Her answers sounded canned and wooden even in her own mind, but time was short and her impression of Dr. Hopper had been that of optimistic naiveté. As she pulled into the drive of what looked like an appropriated apartment complex, she could only hope that he would give her the benefit of the doubt.

The door swung open on the first knock, and they exchanged the typical platitudes as he gestured her towards the worn, but cozy looking couch opposite the recliner he then seated himself in. The faint smell of old books and leather swirled around her as she sat, and she found it comforting despite herself.

“So,” Dr. Hopper started, resting his notepad on his crossed knee. “I hear you’ve hit a bit of a snag at the hospital with one of the patients. Why don’t you tell me about him?"

Him, not it. Emma blinked, her pre-packaged response already fading from her lips. What did it matter what Killian was like? At least in this she could be fully honest, if not defensive. She crossed both her arms and legs, sitting as straight as her spine would allow.

“He’s a jackass navy vet I caught drinking rum on the roof. He lipped me off when I tried to take it, and did so again when I brought him his lunch a few days later. That’s all there is to it.”

Archie nodded understandingly, a trait Emma was already coming to find infuriating. He put his pen and notebook down and braced his elbows on his knees, leaning as close to her as he could without getting into her personal space.

“Emma, in my professional experience…most people don’t call someone they don’t know and have no particular feelings toward a ‘jackass’. Certainly not with that much fervor. Why don’t you tell me what really happened between you two?”

The pros and cons of continuing to deflect formulated in her mind while she willed the flush that had spread across her cheeks back down her neck. It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected Archie to be perceptive; he was a shrink, after all. But she hadn’t expected herself to be quite so easy to read, especially on the very first question. The truth it was, then.

“I really did find him drinking on the roof,” she started. “And he really did mouth me off when I tried to stop him. But then he told me what had happened to him. How he had ended up where he was and…for some reason, I reciprocated. Told him how I ended up on that roof too. Things I’ve never actually told anyone. Things I’ve…walked away from people rather than admit to. And he never said anything at all.”

Archie was writing now, but still nodding her through the entirety of her speech, prompting her to continue.

“And the day at lunch? What happened then?”

Emma frowned hard; what had happened? Why had things spiraled out of control so fast?

“I don’t know. He…I wasn’t actually serving him lunch that day. I was taking him some Jell-O from my own.” Archie raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. “And…he accused me of trying to be a pity friend. “

“Which you weren’t, I suspect.”

“I mean, I don’t think so. I wasn’t trying to be. I just wanted to talk to him again.”

“Because you had shared something that made you feel vulnerable with him, and it left you feeling exposed?”

Emma turned her legs over; this is what she hated about shrinks. Being psychoanalyzed made her skin crawl. “I guess,” she drawled finally. 

Archie hummed, his pen still scrawling away at a speed that made Emma’s wrists ache in sympathy. She held her breath as the silence stretched on, folding and unfolding her hands a dozen times before the doctor finally looked up. 

“Well, Emma, to what I assume will be Ms. Mills great disappointment, it will not be my recommendation that you spend the rest of your sentence in prison. Contrary to appearance, I think what occurred between you and Mr. Jones was actually quite healthy, for the both of you.” 

Emma cocked her eyebrow. “How so? It wasn’t exactly sharing and caring time. And how can you say that so quickly? You only asked me one question…”

Archie let out a breathy laugh, adjusting his glasses before closing his notebook and sitting up straighter.“I had a hunch when Ms. Mills contacted me that she was more or less looking for a way to get you out of her hair. She’s not fond of the program, you see. But beyond that, Emma, I would say that anything that can illicit such an emotional response from you can only be a good thing. You’re a very guarded young woman, and I suspect much of that façade is intentional. But you opened yourself up to someone, let them in, with very little provocation from the sounds of it. That’s a profound thing.”

Emma could feel herself staring to shake now, the raw, open feeling in her chest constricting her breathing and chilling her bones. 

“I don’t know why. I did that, I mean. Talked to him. The words just kind of…fell out of me.”

“I’d wager you feel a sort of kinship with him based off of similar emotional experiences. Perhaps you wanted to be the support for him that you never received yourself.”

Not likely, was her mind’s immediate response, but outwardly Emma knew she couldn’t fully disprove that theory. It would make sense.

“Then why did I get so angry at him?”

“That’s the funny thing about kinship. When you see yourself in another person, oftentimes you end up projecting your internalized emotions onto them. Whatever he did to upset you…I’d bet that anger was really directed at yourself.”

Emma blinked several times as she tried to process what was likely the most uncomfortable five minutes of her life. Her first instinct was denial, because no, this had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Killian Jones being an asshole. The words perished in their inception, however, all righteous anger forgotten. Right now, she was simply tired. 

“Thank you, Dr. Hopper. Am I free to go?”

* 

A text from Mary Margaret popped up on her phone screen before she’d even reached the freeway (hospital gossip seemed to travel inhumanely fast) as well as instructions to take the rest of the day off. She was more than happy to oblige; her head was still buzzing with a lifetimes worth of distressing self-revelation and she was in desperate need to decompress.

When she arrived home, Emma made herself a single cup if scalding tea, poured herself an equally scalding bath, turned out every light and soaked by the light of three almost-to-the-stub-candles. She knew none of this would actually help relieve the tension in her body, but it provided the illusion that she was doing something to at least ease it until tomorrow.

When she would have to return to the hospital, and apologize to that smirking asshole.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning found Emma awake two hours early after a restless night, her skin sensitive from the friction of tossing and turning so much against the rough sheets. She decided to busy herself by making chocolate chip pancakes, doubling the batter so she could slip a few dollops into her mini muffin pan for Killian. Food had placated him momentarily last time, perhaps she could reproduce that affect and make him more amicable toward her apology.

During the too-short drive to the hospital, she tried in vain to parse out what exactly she was going to say to him. Unfortunately, unlike Archie, she couldn’t begin to predict what his responses and reactions would be. She found she wasn’t as bothered by that revelation as she might once have been; one of the advantages of her impromptu honesty with him was the freedom to abandon pretense.

She arrived at Killian’s door with a hesitant hope in her heart and a Tupperware full of muffins only to find it empty. Truly empty. Not only was his bag and other personal effects gone, the bed was made and all the medical equipment compacted and tucked neatly parallel to it.

Emma tried not to panic; she knew Killian wasn’t ready to be released, but perhaps the doctors had finally deemed him recovered enough for physical therapy. Most of those patients were kept in a separate ward on the second floor, closer to the gym and similar facilities. 

She tried not to run as she searched the halls for Mary Margaret, the only person at all likely to inform her about the condition of a patient she was in no way related to. She found her in the cafeteria, loading up her tray with fruit and a tuna sandwich. Emma tried to slow her gait to as nonchalant a pace as her frantic mind would allow. Her expression was a mystery, but she could only hope it was half as disinterested as she was trying to make it. 

“Hey Mary Margaret,” she said, a little too loud and suddenly that the other woman jumped and nearly toppled her tray. 

“Emma. You scared me. How’d your appointment with Archie go? You’re not here to say goodbye are you?”

Emma felt a squeeze of affection in her chest for the concern in the other woman’s voice. She was thankful she had more urgent business to ask after and didn’t have to dwell on it. “No, thankfully. I was Just wondering where Killian was. He wasn’t released yet, was he?”

Mary Margaret’s concern quickly melted into guarded suspicion. “Emma…I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to him anymore?”

Emma blinked, slightly taken aback. If she couldn’t send her to jail, Regina clearly lost no time slandering her behind her back. “Well, those words were never explicitly said. Anyway, I just want to apologize to him. For what I said last time…” she trailed off, hoping she wouldn’t be prompted for details.

“Oh, I see…” replied Mary Margaret, in a knowing tone that refused to let Emma think for a second that she could fool her. They had reached the register, and Mary Margaret turned to pay considerably more enthusiastically than she would have if she hadn’t been clearly mentally mulling over her next words. Emma waited patiently, and was rewarded when she motioned them towards a secluded corner table after receiving her change. 

“Unfortunately,” she started in a hushed tone as she unwrapped her sandwich, “your apology will have to wait. Killian was moved to the ICU on Sunday. He had a blood clot that detached and traveled to his lungs. He already had the surgery to remove it, but there was some extensive tissue damage. He’ll be on a ventilator for at least few days.”

Though she rattled them off with the swift efficiency and detachment of an experienced nurse, Mary Margaret’s averted eyes belied that her words were not without effect on her. She continued to unpack her lunch and subsequently dig in, while Emma sat in slack-jawed silence.

“He’ll be okay,” she added eventually, when her continued lack of response made it clear that Emma was currently running the gamut of her entire emotional capacity. “Blood clots are a common complication after an amputation, albeit a serious one, but we caught it before it could do any irreversible damage. Keeping him on the ventilator is just giving his lungs a chance to recover with as little stress as possible.”

Emma nodded slowly, Mary Margaret’s words seeping through the initial shock of the revelation. _He’ll be okay. I can still talk to him. I can still make things right._

“Could I…could I maybe see him? Is he awake?” The neediness in her voice was off-putting, but there was an uneasiness that had lodged itself behind her breast bone the second she fled Killian Jones’ hospital room, and something in her remained convinced that seeing him was the only way to remedy it. 

Mary Margaret was kind enough not to comment. “He’s sedated- being intubated is unsurprisingly uncomfortable- but not right out. Obviously a conversation is out of the question, but I don’t see the harm in you tagging along with me on my afternoon rounds and peeking in.”

A slight smile played at the edges of Emma’s lips as she nodded, the precursor to relief already taking root in her heart. Mary Margaret continued her lunch, offering a piece of fruit to Emma, the two women content to sit in a companionable silence for the remainder of the hour.

*

Unfortunately, Killian was far from the first patient on the roster for Mary Margaret’s rounds, so Emma agreed to shadow her and help out where she could as she had done during her first days at the clinic. She knew many of the patients by name now, and found to her surprise that she actually enjoyed seeing and chatting with many of them. Some, not unlike Killian, were a bit prickly in their pain, but even those accepted her help with an amicable air of gratitude that left Emma with a smile on her face. 

Her buoyant mood quickly began to flounder as she and Mary Margaret shuffled into the crowded staff elevator, each armed with a clipboard and trolley to assist them on their round throughout the ICU. This would be Emma’s first visit to the unit, and she noticed the distinct change in atmosphere as soon as they stepped off the elevator. The air seemed more artificial, the sounds muted, and the overall mood one of sombre silence. It was depressing, even just standing in the middle of the corridor, and she was glad she didn’t have to come here every day.

Thankfully, her stay wouldn’t have to be a long one; Killian was third from the top on this list, and the Mary Margaret took pity on Emma’s obvious discomfort and told her she was free to go for her break after they had checked on him. Her gratitude only grew when Mary Margaret went on to inform her of the laundry list of tasks required for a simple check-up on each patient, each more complex and medically involved than her regular duties. She resolved to keep her mouth shut and not touch anything she wasn’t told to.

As they turned the corner and entered the room of their first patient, it became apparent that allowing Emma to take a back seat on the round had been Mary Margaret’s plan all along. Occasionally she would call for her to hold a bandage in place or help re-position a patient. But the vast majority of the time she was content to allow Emma to remain slunk against the wall right next to the door, seemingly afraid that her mere presence would cause calamity.

Though it only took around twenty minutes for Mary Margaret to complete the various tasks required of her with each patient, it seemed like a small eternity to Emma. She felt like she was holding her breath, like her lungs couldn’t seem to inflate enough to abate the dizziness currently muddling her senses. The feeling only grew worse when they finally reached the hallway that would lead them to Killian’s room.

A strange tendril of anxiety began strangling her insides, one that Emma recognized from after Neil’s death: guilt. She felt guilty that Killian was currently lying in the ICU, unable to so much as breathe on his own. As if those final, angry words she had spit at him had been the catalyst that had sent him on the fast track to death’s door.

She shook her head. That was ridiculous, not to mention impossible. Casting her mind back to that day, she recalled Killian’s too-pale skin, dull eyes and tremulous grasp on his book. Something was wrong before she’d even stepped foot into his room. It wasn’t her fault. _It wasn’t._

And he wasn’t going to die, in any case.

As they made their final approach to Killian’s new room, Emma was chagrined to discover that, unlike the previous one, this one was without the luxury of a window. Something about entering his space, someone she didn’t really know and who probably hated her, at a time when he was at his most vulnerable, felt wrong. She had been hoping to be able to satisfy her curiosity relatively unseen, with two inches of glass between them.

Mary Margaret once again proved herself emotionally astute, turning around to reassure Emma with a smile before reaching for the handle. Emma tried her best to reciprocate, with only mediocre success.

The door pushed open, and Emma had to take a decisive step forward to save her nose from an unsightly bruise. Unlike Mary Margaret, who had entered briskly and with purpose, already shielding Killian from view as she began her routine, Emma held back, wedging her body between the door just enough to reveal a sliver of the room. She couldn’t remember ever being so spineless, but it was more than just her feelings at stake; it was her freedom. She couldn’t afford another outburst, and she didn’t trust herself (or him) not to provoke one.

Though the room itself held the same eerie stillness of the rest of the ward, a cacophony of sounds sliced through the calm like a knife through butter. Compressed air, being audibly forced through tubes at set intervals. A chorus of beeping, whirring, and dripping sounds. And the shuffling of blankets, as the room’s only occupant shifted slightly in his bed.

So, he was awake then. Emma couldn’t bring herself to be grateful for that.

It was several minutes before Mary Margaret shifted from her position hunched over the bed, finally allowing Emma the glance she had endured an emotional rollercoaster for. It was with a mingled sense of relief and disappointment that she found Killian looking much like she expected: pale, drawn, his eyes seemingly unable to open beyond brief flutters. The tube down his throat forced a hard clench out of Emma’s heart, as did the long incision Mary Margaret had just exposed on his chest.

She watched as the nurse checked the new wound and changed the dressings, speaking words Emma couldn’t hear but knew were meant to soothe. She had just finished replacing Killian’s gown on his shoulder when he sat up slightly, opening his eyes as much as he was able in an effort to catch Mary Margaret’s gaze. When he failed, he raised his hand weakly until he was able to just brush the sleeve of her sweater. Immediately alert, the nurse took Killian’s hand and began to rattle off a flurry of questions, hoping, Emma assumed, to construe what her patient needed with the patent one-squeeze-for-yes-two-for-no system.

Instead, Killian retracted his hand from her grasp as soon as he was able, bringing his fingers together and miming the action of writing. Mary Margaret’s brows immediately knit together, a furrow of deep concern etched into her features, but after a moment she complied. She flipped to a blank page in her clipboard, setting it down on the bed and placing her pen in Killian’s grasp. It took visible, slow effort for him to push the pen into the paper hard enough to force the ink to transfer, and when he did, he seemed to only write a few letters before letting his hand sag and sinking back into his pillows.

Emma was dismayed to notice her confusion at the exchange was not mirrored on Mary Margaret’s face. Instead, she wore a mask of shock and alarm, one which took several seconds to school back into neutrality. When she did, she leaned in close to Killian, once again placing her hand atop his as she once again began peppering him with soothing tones. Emma couldn’t make out her words, but she could hear the faint edge of desperation to her tone.

The more Mary Margaret spoke, the more agitated Killian seemed to grow, shaking his head as much as the ventilator would allow and stretching the various tubes and wires that were attached to him with jerky, harsh movements. Mary Margaret stood up then, her voice loud enough for Emma to hear that she would agree to do whatever Killian had asked, that she would be back in a few minutes. She gathered her things, and with a subtle head jerk towards the hallway, signaled Emma out. The door hadn’t even clicked shut before she was speaking.

“What the hell was that all about?” Emma hissed, grabbing Mary Margaret’s wrist when she began to angle her body in the direction of the opposing hallway. 

“Emma, I can’t-“

“Of course you can! I was there, technically. Assisting you, or whatever. No one needs to know that I didn’t get the information first hand, and it’s not like I’m going to go around yapping it to anyone anyway.” Emma physically felt her features fall as studied the other woman, sadness etched into every line of her expression. Guilt gnawed at her heart again, and she tried to make her voice as gentle as possible.

“Look, whatever he wrote looked like it seriously freaked you out. My own peace of mind aside, you shouldn’t have to bear that alone. Please”

Mary Margaret nodded, a curt, spasmodic movement that betrayed her continued unease. “Alright. But not right now, in the middle of the hallway. Go on your break, I’ll take care of this, and then I’ll find you after and explain. Okay?” As soon as Emma inclined her head in agreement, Mary Margaret bustled down the remaining length of the hallway, disappearing around a corner and further into the depths of the ICU.

Retracing her footsteps, Emma unconsciously sought out the sanctuary of her car. She had no intention on running again, but she craved the familiarity and privacy of those four, slightly rusted walls, if only for a little while. Though she was fairly certain Mary Margaret would catch the hint and follow her out, she palmed her cell phone just in case, turning it over and over in her hand anxiously.

It took fifteen minutes for Mary Margaret to emerge, striding across the parking lot towards the bug with her eyes glued to the ground. Emma followed suit, settling her gaze on the steering wheel as the other woman entered the car wordlessly, seemingly content to stay so until Emma broke the silence.

“So?” 

“He asked a DNR form,” Mary Margaret replied immediately. 

The term sounded vaguely familiar, but not enough that Emma could mince meaning out of the abbreviation. The inflection-less tone of Mary Margaret’s voice didn’t offer any clues, either. 

“And that is…?” Emma finally prompted.

“A Do Not Resuscitate form. It’s a legal document that bars us from intervening if something goes seriously wrong. I’ve never had to sign one before today.” The words came out in a rush, almost as if they burned her tongue and she needed to spit them out as quickly as possible.

A dazed silence filled the car, neither woman quite sure how to react or what to say. Mary Margaret was clearly not unaffected; she cared for her patients deeply, and Emma had long since discovered that she carried a torch in particular for Killian, some instinct deep within her longing to comfort and soothe a man who seemed to reject all forms of affection. Emma could relate, though she suspected with her it had less to do with instinct and more to do with Killian himself.

And now, the same need welled inside her for Mary Margaret. She swallowed around the lump in her throat with audible difficulty, forcing levity into her voice that she did not feel.

“But…is that even necessary? You said yourself he was going to be fine.”

Mary Margaret’s reply was swift, as if she had already asked and answered that question within her own mind. “Anything is possible. A week ago he was in the last stretch of hospitalization, almost ready to be moved into physical therapy. Now he’s lying in the ICU, in almost as bad a shape as when he was first brought in. There’s no certainty when it comes to the human body. Except now, he’s made sure that if something does happen…” She trailed off, her eyes roving over her lap and welling with tears she too professional to shed.

Emma had never been a particularly physical person, but her arms seemed to move of their own volition as she reached over to embrace her friend. Mary Margaret reciprocated wholeheartedly, latching onto Emma and holding tight, her head coming to rest on her shoulder. The position was awkward and uncomfortable, and she could feel a wet spot starting to spread on her shirt, but she didn’t pull away. They sat like that for immeasurable minutes, and though she would never admit it, Emma was fairly certain she’d made a mess of Mary Margaret’s shirt too. 

*

Emma spent the next 72 hours feeling as if pins and needles had been sewn into her shoes. Though she trusted Mary Margaret when she had agreed to let her know if anything changed with Killian’s condition, she still found herself making a discreet stop by the ICU every day after her shift. She would open the door to his room just enough to be able to see him lying there, always asleep. See that he was, if not any better, at least not any worse.

A host of disjointed words and phrases would assault her mind each day as she made her pilgrimage, bubbling up from some deep recess of her soul she usually kept under lock and key. She cherry picked the parts she might actually be able to use, trains of thought that focused on his actions rather than her feelings, until she had finally compiled enough to consider herself prepared to face him when the time came.

That didn’t make it any easier when, on the fourth day, she arrived at the hospital to find the name Killian Jones at the very bottom on her roster of patients.

She didn’t take that particular coincidence for granted, shooting Mary Margaret a grateful, though slightly fearful smile as she collected her clipboard and trolley for the day. The other woman squeezed her shoulder before brushing by to begin her own rounds, leaving Emma to fight through a labyrinth of paradoxical emotions in the hallway on her own.

On the one hand, she could finally relax in the knowledge that Killian’s idiotic death wish was, hopefully, no longer at any significant risk of being granted. On the other, that meant the moment of truth had finally arrived; no more hiding behind doors, sneaking unsolicited glances at his sleeping form. 

Now, she would have to talk to him. And despite having several extra days to come to terms with that, she couldn’t have felt less prepared. 

When the end of her shift finally came, with only one name left on her list, Emma made her way down the appropriate hallway with an exaggerated slowness. She tried to recall what she had wanted to say to him, but the words were like wisps of cotton, and each time she managed to grab a thin tendril, it would tear from her grasp, leaving only traces of gossamer in her fingers. 

She tried not to hesitate once she reached the door, knocking once and then peering through the window to see if he would acknowledge her. She didn’t expect him to verbally tell her to come in or go away; his throat had to be in hell after three days with a tube stuck down it. Instead, he lifted his gaze toward the door, and let his lids flutter shut in a lazy eye roll at the sight of Emma. Not a shining stamp of approval at her presence, but likely the best she was going to get. She’d take it.

She closed the door softly behind her, walking to the foot of the bed and crossing her arms. The lump in her throat was steadily growing, wrestling her nerve into submission. She knew any hope of the long, self-righteous speech she had tried to recall wasn’t going to be possible before she lost control. Instead, she forced out the one word from in that mattered, as evenly as she could manage. 

“Why.”

Killian didn’t lift his head or open his eyes. For several long moments, he laid there, breath even and body still. She might have thought he had fallen asleep. 

“It’s none of your business,” he finally croaked, voice infinitely tired and barely above a whisper.

Well, that was technically true, but the steel behind the words was all too familiar to be a typical deflector phrase. Emma recalled Archie’s words, and the truth they had forced her to realize. She was determined to stand firm, for both herself and for this infuriating man she found herself inexplicably attached to, no matter what he threw at her.

She kept an even tone, aiming to be amicable rather than confrontational. “You’re right. It’s not. But it should be somebody’s.” 

He outright sneered at that, pushing his voice clearly beyond its limits in order to drive his point. “And you want to make it yours so you can…what was it? See the look on my face when I dig my own grave?”

Emma flinched; he always seemed to go for the kill shot right out of the gate. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, I just…I talked to Dr. Hopper, after I ran out that day-” Killian raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Okay, Regina made me. And he made some…suggestions about why I reacted that way. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t say he was wrong.”

Killian kept his tone flat, making a show of pretending to be bored. “And what did he say?”

_Now or never, Emma._ “That I see myself in you. That I lashed out because I was really angry with myself for…for always pushing everyone away and ending up alone. And that maybe I wanted to help somebody break that cycle before they got to that point.”

“Well that’s very noble.” 

An uncomfortable silence descended Emma unsure of what to say next and Killian unsure if he wanted to say anything at all. 

And then, just like that day on the roof, some unseen barrier crumbled between them. Steel and mortar turned to sand and dust until there was nothing left but honesty. 

Killian sighed, running his hand through his limp, jet-black hair. “I wasn’t always like this, you know. Not even after mine and Liam’s mother died, or when our father left. Though I suppose that was the first chip to fall.” He looked at her then, raising his eyes from the bed where they had stubbornly remained throughout their entire exchange. His voice grew a little stronger, too, taking on a finality of purpose.

“Every time life threw some new shit storm at me, there always someone there to pick me up and weather it with me. When Milah died, I still had Liam. But now? When I get out of here, I have nowhere I can go, and no one waiting for me. I can’t even go back to the Navy thanks to this,” he said, gesturing toward his injured arm. “There’s no point in me being here anymore. And there’s no point in you or anyone else getting tangled up in it.”

The utter defeat laced through those words tore Emma’s heart in two. She wanted to reply with the typical empty platitudes, canned phrases like, _that’s not true, there are people who care, and where there’s life there’s purpose._ But she couldn’t. She couldn’t echo back words she had been told herself, knowing how impersonal and futile they were. Instead, she tried to focus her next words on the two of them; the strange, illogical, but undeniable connection that she knew he had to feel too. A life line. 

“Mary Margaret said you told me more on the roof that day than you had to anyone since you got here. Why is that?” 

He huffed, his face relaxing as the subject matter turned less bleak. “I really needed that bloody drink.”

“No. There’s more to it than that. Because what I told you, I’ve never said to anyone else before either. I felt…a connection to you. And it’s weird and disconcerting and unexplainable…but it’s there. And I think you know it is too.”

“You do give me my best run for my money, I’ll give you that Swan. But what exactly are you trying to say?”

“Give me a chance to be there for you. I think…maybe I need a reason to live too.”

“Well I think you’re daft. But seeing as I’m still stuck in here for God knows how long, might as well have someone to talk to. Tomorrow for lunch, then?” 

“It’s a date,” said Emma coyly, before finally depositing his dinner on the side table and striding out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I promise Emma and Killian are going to interact a lot more from now on!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the extremely extended delay in updates. Life happened at about the same time that inspiration dried up, and as this is the last chapter before the story really kicks into gear, I found it particularly difficult to write. To those who have been following this story, thank you so much for your patience and kind comments. They keep me writing when nothing else does <3

Killian allowed himself to sink further into the pillows as soon as Swan left, a deep, permeating exhaustion turning his bones to lead. His weariness wasn’t just from the drugs or the pain; not even from the fact that he’d scarcely had a decent sleep in months. It came from something intangible, something he had refused to allow himself to dwell on until Emma Swan walked into his life and dredged it back to the surface. 

_Hope._

Hope was difficult to cultivate, and even more so to maintain. It meant getting your hands dirty, digging deep into the quagmire of life while refusing to allow it to suck you in and consume you.

Hope was hard work, and Killian Jones was tired of fighting. Of clawing his way through life, of existing rather than living. The events of the past few months had, in a way, brought him a twisted sense of relief; now he had nothing left to hold onto, no one to leave behind and disappoint. He could let go, and be hurting no one but himself.

That is, until a certain mouthy blonde found him on a rooftop and tried to take away the one thing that brought him any reprieve anymore.

She was a beauty, though, even if her severe ponytail and minimal makeup were a valiant attempt at drawing as little attention to that fact as possible. Killian found himself enamoured with the firm set of her mouth, a mark of her thinly veiled apathy toward him and a perfect foil to his own cocky self-assuredness. 

He hoped to see more of that side of her. Though he’d been having trouble finding it within himself to muster his usual energy into being charming, he smiled at the thought of how their two strong personalities might play off each other when they both returned to top form. _If_ they did.

Emma Swan didn’t seem like the type of woman who cried often.

And yet Killian had already made her cry, _twice._

Shame flooded through him, hot and thick. Being near this woman felt like opening Pandora’s box of messy emotions, for both her and himself.

But Killian found that was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t hold out any true hope of their tentative friendship becoming anything more meaningful, but he had never really been one to deny himself pleasure. And he took pleasure in being with Emma- even if all their encounters thus far were strained and uncomfortable. He did feel the connection between them that she so often alluded to, the warmth of something inside him rekindling. The desire to _try._

She would see through him eventually, he knew. Tire of his constant bullshit, his broken body and splintered spirit and the smile he tried to gloss it all over with. She would realize sooner or later that, petty thief or no, Emma Swan was too good for Killian Jones.

But until that day, he was going to drink in every drop of affection she would afford him. If he was going to hell, he might as well enjoy the ride.

Bumpy though it was likely to be.

*  
Emma decided she would bring something more sustainable to Killian for lunch the following day than mushy broth or Jell-O. She had no idea what his tastes were, but she figured something easy to eat and soft on his throat would be best. She considered going to a restaurant or deli, until she spotted a pair of grilled cheeses sitting under a heating lamp in the corner of the cafeteria line up. You couldn’t go wrong with the classics.

She paused at Killian’s door to peer through the window, her hand freezing on the handle when she spotted Mary Margaret already inside. The nurse was sitting on the edge of Killian’s bed, a bag of fresh pressure bandages open beside her as her fingers gently probed and examined his injured arm. 

This was the first time Emma had seen his stump free of its dressings; it looked both better and worse than she had expected. Most of the amputations Emma had seen since coming to the hospital had been professional, and those that had not had at least been professionally tended to soon after. Killian’s was a hack job- the flesh was mottled and the bone left underneath uneven, a clear sign that his assailants weapon of choice had not been sharp enough to sever his hand in one go. Still, the stitches were neat and free from infection, and the bandages seemed to be doing an adequate job of forcing the stiff muscles into a shape appropriate for prosthesis. 

Emma watched as Mary Margaret methodically reapplied the wrappings, her lips working almost as much as her hands as she attempted light conversation. Killian didn’t speak, but he made eye contact, and Emma’s heart soared as his face lit up with the hint of a true smile. 

She scurried to the end of the hallway as Mary Margaret finished up, having no desire for her voyeurism to be discovered. She waited for the other woman to pass before striding back towards Killian’s room, knocking once before sticking her head around the door with exaggerated nonchalance. Killian’s gaze immediately met her, his voice, though still quiet and strained, dripping sarcasm. 

“Spying on me again, Swan? You do know those windows are two-way, right?”

Emma rolled her eyes. Of course he knew she’d been watching. “Shut up, I come bearing gifts.” She held up her bag in response to his cocked eyebrows, and crossed the room to set it on the table before him.

Killian leaned forward to peek inside, his face lighting up when he discovered what she had brought him. “Real food? Well in that case…” He smiled, moving to press a button hidden somewhere amongst his sheets to bring the bed into a more seated position, while Emma helped manoeuvre the pillows to better support his back with a coy smirk.  
He settled against the pillows before fumbling for a small device attached to his I.V. that Emma recognized as a morphine pump, his eyes rolling back slightly as he injected himself.

“More meds?”

“Aye. My arm has this pesky habit of becoming even more painful after someone’s been poking at it.”

Emma simply nodded, unsure of how far into the subject she could safely broach, and unwilling to disturb the tentative peace between them. But he didn’t seem defensive, and he continued a moment later as her silence stretched on.

“Did you see?” he asked, not making eye contact though clearly still noticing her trepidation.

She briefly debated lying, but conceded this was as good an in as any to a conversation she was genuinely curious about. “Yeah,” she replied, finally.

He bowed his head, a hint of shame creeping over his features despite their resolute neutrality. Emma was quick to lean over the bed, placing her hand over the bandages of his arm in the same fashion as if she were taking his hand.

“It doesn’t bother me, Killian.” She squeezed lightly, with just enough gentle pressure to offer reassurance before settling back into her seat. “But…I think it bothers you.”

He peered at her from beneath his lashes, a flicker of exasperation in his eyes, but his gaze otherwise studious. Emma waited patiently; she recognized this behaviour from their encounter on the roof, and knew he was judging whether or not to tell her something he deemed important.

“Of course it bothers me,” he finally allowed, though not unkindly. “Not, not _cosmetically._ I mean, I suppose people will stare at me, but they’ve sort of always done so, anyways. That’s not what bothers me.” He broke off, scrubbing his good hand along the length of his face and scratching the omnipresent stubble at his jaw. Emma was afraid that was all he was going to offer before he continued.

“You know, when I first came here, I was so sick with pain and grief, that it took the longest time for me to even comprehend it. And then when I did, all I felt was relief. I would look around here, at so many blokes that got off way worse than me, and I was grateful. I can still walk, still see. What did I have to complain about?” He flashed her shockingly brilliant smile, so incongruous with his words and the emotional air of the room, and Emma felt her heart squeeze painfully in her chest.

“And,” he went on, “it’s still true. I’m still grateful, every day. But then they brought in the grief counsellors and trauma psychologists, and I realized my life was never going to be the same. There’s so much I have to re-learn; driving, writing, how to tie my shoes or button a bloody shirt.” The last he said with though his teeth, with a scrunched face and extreme derision. Emma wasn’t surprised; she suspected him to be a man of pride. 

“And so much more that I won’t be able to do at all. I can’t return to the Navy, not in any capacity that I’d want to. So what the hell am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?”  
To that, she had no answer. Although loathe to do so, Emma had to admit that she too had felt Killian got off easy when compared to many of the other patients she had helped treat. The thought turned her stomach now, and she scrambled for a reply in an effort to force it away.

“What about before the Navy? You mentioned you didn’t enlist until…later in life.” She mentally congratulated herself on the save. “What did you do for a living before that?”

Killian hesitated, but much less so than before. “I…I was an artist. I did a lot of design work for various companies, as well as my own creative endeavours. All freelance, of course, nothing major. But I got by. Don’t look so surprised!”

Emma hadn’t realized she’d been gaping. She closed her mouth with effort. “You just…don’t seem the type.”

Killian let out a single, hard laugh. “I’m afraid you don’t know me all that well, love.”

Emma shook her head in wonder. “Yeah, I…guess not.” _But I think I’d like to._

“Now,” he said, adjusting himself as far upright as he could and breaking her reverie. “I believe there was a promise of real food?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, which she answered with an affectionate eye roll. 

Emma obliged, digging their sandwiches out of the bag and passing him his before starting in on hers. They chewed in silence for several minutes, before Killian’s face paled and he abruptly stopped, reaching over her to desperately grope for the basin on the table beside her, and then promptly vomiting into it. Emma leapt aside, her own grilled cheese hitting the floor in the process, but her body otherwise frozen as he retched up everything he had eaten and then some. 

“Oh my God! I’m, I’ll go get, just hold on!” She called back, already half way out the door. She heard Killian’s voice hoarsely calling her name as she entered the hall, but ignored him.

Emma found Mary Margaret rather easily, chatting with Ruby at the nurses’ station down the hall while working on some paperwork. Both women looked up in concern as Emma came clambering around the corner, red faced and huffing.

“Emma? What’s wrong?” asked Mary Margaret, already getting into position to run if she had to.

Emma was slightly breathless as she answered. “Oh, nothing it’s just…Killian he…had an accident,” she finished sheepishly, realizing belatedly that a little vomit probably wasn’t exactly an emergency and didn’t constitute running down the hall as if it were one.

Mary Margaret raised her eyebrows questioningly as Emma’s cheeks began to burn, but otherwise remained mercifully silent. She handed off her paperwork to Ruby with a conspiring upwards twitch of her lips, before leading the way back down the hall to Killian’s room. Emma remained frozen after the nurse disappeared for a few moments too long, her heart rate finally slowing and her mind playing catch up, until Ruby’s barely supressed giggles spurred her to follow.

By the time she arrived, Mary Margaret was already chatting away cheerfully as she cleaned up the mess, likely in effort to diffuse any awkwardness. Emma paid only half attention, losing interest completely as soon as she noticed Killian’s unrelenting blue gaze watching her over the nurse’s shoulder. He smiled deprecatingly as their eyes met, mouthing ‘sorry’ as Mary Margaret rambled on obliviously. 

She shook her head in reply, her face heating up again at the thought of her melodramatic response. Killian didn’t appear to share her embarrassment however, again wordlessly miming the word ‘tomorrow?’ exaggeratingly before wriggling his eyebrows at her. She replied immediately with a crooked smile and nod, before turning her back to him and leaving the room before he was able to muster another smug expression.

*

Despite what she had come to refer to in her mind as ‘the grilled cheese incident’, Emma still found herself nauseatingly excited for lunch with Killian the following day. Though a miasma of anger and anxiety still swirled within her at the thought of allowing herself beyond the minimum safe distance to another human being, she tried her best to keep it under lock and key at the back of her mind. Killian was messy and volatile, but so was she. And if yesterday was any indication, he was trying just as hard as Emma to dismantle his own walls and let her in, brick by brick. Allowing herself to look foreword to spending time with him was just another way of meeting him in the middle.

The downside to her excitement was that it made morning rounds trudge on for what felt like eons. This was further exacerbated by her being awake an hour longer than she was used to, having decided this time to stop at the deli a few blocks down from the hospital before work. She picked out two of the most inoffensive bowls of soup on offer, packed with vegetables and pasta and a mild chicken broth, as well as two crumbly tea biscuits. It wasn’t a terribly different meal than what the hospital would normally serve, but still looked infinitely more appetizing. 

By the time lunch finally arrived, a nervous, anticipatory energy had taken up residence in every fiber of Emma’s being, giving way to a jittery clumsiness as she re-heated the bowls of soup in the cafeteria microwave. She cursed as she spilt nearly half of one, the slight shake of her hands and the unexpected heat of the bowl proving to be an inopportune combination, but was able to make her way to Killian’s room without a more serious snafu.

She found herself almost entirely at the mercy of her emotions when she arrived, a unbidden smile splitting her face in two as she took in Killian’s form in a more erect state than she’d seen in days. A conversation with Mary Margaret earlier had informed her that he was rapidly improving, his lungs almost at full capacity and his overall health quick approaching what it was before his impromptu stay in the ICU. He was another scar richer, but otherwise, would seemingly be no worse for wear.

To her surprise, he returned the smile in kind, color rising yet higher on his complexion, which was each day closer to returning to normal. 

“Swan,” he greeted her with pseudo nonchalance, inclining his head in her direction but not breaking eye contact. He set aside his phone, which he’d been precariously balancing on his stump as he scrolled through some unknowable webpage, and used his good hand to push himself into a fully seated position. 

“Hey,” Emma replied simply, still standing motionless in the doorway. The embarrassment of the previous day still hung thick in the air, making her self-conscious as the silence quickly sunk into awkwardness. Killian raised his eyebrows at her aberrant insecurity, motioning finally for her to come in and set her burden down on the bedside table. 

As she did so, her hands immediately reaching into the bag to retrieve their lunch, Killian reached out and placed his hand on her arm to stop her. His touch was a warm, reassuring weight, and one that she found she was sad to lose when he pulled back.

“What do you say to lunch outside today, Swan? I’ve heard the spring drizzle has finally abated to some sunshine. Which, outside of the glow of your lovely visage, is something I’ve been sorely missing.”

Emma narrowed her eyes as she took in his expression, his smile genuine despite the twinkle of mischief in the endless blue of his eyes. Being fed a line was usually something she did not tolerate, and yet she could sense Killian’s sincerity and anticipation of her reaction. He meant what he said, though he undoubtedly gave voice to it merely to see her blush. Emma found it strangely endearing, though frustrating, and resolved not to take the bait. 

“Sure,” she finally replied flippantly, clearing her throat before continuing, “but are you sure you’re up for it? The courtyard’s usually pretty busy. I’d hate for you to make a repeat performance of yesterday, this time with a bigger audience.” She ended with a smirk cocky enough to rival his, and received a huff of amusement in response.

“Not to worry, Swan,” he answered, nonplussed. “I had some eggs for breakfast this morning and, so far, they have remained where they ought. Shall we?” He swung his legs out from under the sheets and over the side of the bed in a surprisingly fluid motion, bumping her thighs lightly with his feet.

“Oh um, yeah. Should I get…?” She trailed off, motioning to the hallway where errantly parked wheelchairs could usually be found. 

He shook his head. “No, no need. As long as you don’t mind a shuffling pace, I would very much like to walk.”

Emma nodded, scooping up their lunch in one arm while instinctively offering the other to Killian as he made his slow descent to the ground. His grip on her tightened as he stood for the first time in over a week, his eyes fluttering slightly as dizziness briefly overtook him.

They remained interlocked the entire way to the courtyard, Killian’s strength dissipating rapidly and Emma’s arm quickly developing five finger-shaped bruises. But it was worth the pain to see Killian’s face dissolve into bliss once they finally reached the sliding doors, and sunshine washed over him for the first time in far too long. 

Emma smiled as she guided them toward the nearest bench, bending to help ease Killian down before depositing their lunch and seating herself. Despite the light sheen of sweat on his forehead and the rouge of exertion, she didn’t think he’d ever looked more handsome.

Silence followed as they began their meal, and endured until Killian, taking a break between small and deliberate mouthfuls, finally felt himself recovered enough to hold conversation.

“So, Swan,” he began, uncharacteristically tentative. “I feel like every time we meet it’s under the guise of some sort of crisis or another, which doesn’t exactly leave much room for small talk. And what little we have snuck in has all been about me. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

“Oh, um…” Emma felt taken off-guard by the open question; though they’d both shared rough honestly with each other more than once, it had never come about so casually.  
“What do you want to know?”

“Well, you know how I ended up in this God forsaken place. Why don’t we start with how you got here? I think you mentioned something about stealing at our first meeting.” He offered a wry smile, which although Emma knew was meant to buffer his question, also reassured her. 

She felt a familiar heat rise high on her cheeks, shame at her former lifestyle truly encompassing her for the first time. She’d always felt a sort of vindication toward shoplifting, like life had dealt her a shitty hand and this was her way of dealing back. She stole from chain convenience stores and retailers, businesses with a large enough profit margin that missing candy bar here or t-shirt there was likely to go unnoticed, let alone be missed. But sitting here, beside this man who’d had at least as bad a life as her, if not worse, put her choices into perspective for what felt like the first time. 

“Yeah, I um…Grew up in the foster system, without ever really having a lot, you know. Sometimes not even enough to survive. So shoplifting was a necessity, which kind of…devolved into a hobby. I’d even get caught on purpose sometimes if I was in particularly rough foster home, just so they’d place me somewhere else.”

Killian had stopped eating beside her, his brows furrowed and expression intense. Emma couldn’t discern the emotion behind it; judgement, concern? Anger? Whatever it was, she couldn’t face it, and kept her own gaze far off toward the other end of the courtyard, eyes narrowing in the sun.

“Anyway, I waitressed for a bit after getting out of the system at eighteen, and even though I didn’t need to steal anymore, I still couldn’t kick the habit. I got fired after getting caught one day, stealing _condiments_ from the supply fridge, (Killian breathed a small laugh at that) and decided to lift a car and skip town. That’s how I met Neil- we were both trying to steal the same car.”

Beside her, Emma could see in her periphery that Killian’s brows had risen, but the rest of his face remained frozen. “Sounds like a match made in heaven,” he said, his tone oddly flat.

“Yeah, well, not so much, given how it turned out.”

They sat in a pregnant, but companionable silence after that, finishing their meals and allowing the sunlight to bask over their faces for the few minutes they had left. Killian finally broke the reverie, asking the one question Emma had been hoping he wouldn’t.

“You said you grew up in the system…what happened to your parents? Did they pass?” He asked the question with the exaggerated gentleness only someone who knew how that felt could have. 

Emma stood, brushing errant crumbs off her jeans as she did so. She kept her back to Killian as she answered. “No. At least, I don’t think so. They abandoned me. I was found on the side of a highway when I was a few hours old.” 

She turned then and grasped him by the elbow, helping to haul him to his feet wordlessly. He graciously caught the hint, saying nothing more on the subject, nor anything else, as they made their pilgrimage back to his room. 

The way back took even longer than the way there had, and Killian was visibly exhausted by the time he all but fell back into bed, face red and breath coming in short huffs. Emma lingered for a few moments longer than she had originally intended to make sure he was okay, and was just turning to leave when Mary Margaret bustled though the open door. Wearing her characteristic smile and bouncing with energy, she gave Emma a conspiring look as she took in the scene before her.

“Emma, I was hoping to find you here,” she said by way of greeting, failing to conceal her excitement at the fact. Emma had long suspected Mary Margaret held a candle for her and Killian. A romantic candle. The thought made her neck burn slightly. 

“I was just coming to inform Killian that he’s finally been cleared for physical therapy,” she continued. “And to escort him to his first session. Perhaps you’d like to help me?” 

Emma glanced back at Killian, his arm slung over his closed eyes and his chest still heaving. There was no way anything more physical than a trip to the bathroom was happening for him today. Luckily, Mary Margaret had finally peered around Emma and noticed for herself.

“Or…perhaps you’ve already tired him out enough for one day.” She threw another coy smile in Emma’s direction. “Does tomorrow sound alright, Killian?” 

Killian nodded mutely, muscles still frozen in position, though his breathing finally seemed to be slowing down some.

Mary Margaret accepted his silent consent, rattling off to expect her around the same time tomorrow before bustling back out the door on her heels. Emma turned to follow her, not wanting to be too late back from her break, when Killian’s weak voice called her back.

“Swan? You coming too? Tomorrow, I mean.” He’d finally removed his arm from his face and was staring at her intently, the muscles of his jaw strained with the effort of remaining straight against the neediness his voice had already betrayed.

Emma smiled, soft and slight. “Yes, Jones, I’m coming too.” She replied, almost tenderly. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added, “It’s bound to be hilarious.” She managed to close the door just before the paper cup Killian threw in her direction hit its mark.


End file.
